I miss the simple days when you were once a garden. I’d prowl into your living room and nap, lazily, across the seedy couch you found in the basement of a thrift shop. I paid no mind to the vines that grew lavishly around my ankles.
The sunlight that cascaded through the cracks in the windows seemed to nourish my limbs as much as it tended to your own needful soil.
Lately, you seem to prefer to deny your roots as a bearer of fruit, preferring to be known as the flightless astronaut who will someday discover a new Earth to reinvent your crops upon.